In Solitude
by shashaway
Summary: And he thinks how pathetic it is. With or without Guren, he still can't breathe.


**Notes**

Spoiler Chapter 45

I'm going home next week so I have to feel the angst.

* * *

 **Metal and Dust**

Shigure always carries metal. All over her body. Inside the seams of her clothes. Needles dipped in poisons, the sharp knives to nick her enemies of their lives. Her petite form is just as deadly as the weapons she has. Fast and ruthless in the battlefield and Shinya sometimes wonders of her eyes—dark blue and sharp—cutting through the war by her sheer cold anger.

Sayuri—with her warm smile and braided brown hair—looks up to him, her brown eyes twinkle as she sweeps the dust off his shoulders. _You need to look proper_ , she says. Even when they're suffocated by the weight of the world. To keep their heads up and try to smile. Shinya is grateful, because her smile—with the dirt on her cheeks and the scratches on her chin—never falters.

They are steady presences in his life, and most importantly in Guren's. The loyal guards for Ichinose family.

He may be a Hiragi. But when they sit together in the dreary afternoon after a mission, eating Sayuri's handmade bentos and looking far to the debris from the apocalypse, Shinya thinks he cares for them both—friends with different personalities but unshakeable loyalty—and they for him.

* * *

 **The Scalding Flame**

Her hair is red. Strands of flickering flame under the sun, moving fast as her fists collides. Her rage is just as burning—unlike Shigure's icy exterior—leaving those by her wake in cracked ribs. Mito's fire is as red as her hair. But her fire is also warm. Everytime her purple eyes stare at their injuries, worrying her lower lip and jaw clenches because the fight is not over—not before they can get out alive.

Goshi laughs. Low-pitched voice as he leans back on his seat, hand on his shaking belly. It's infectious, Shinya has a hard time to keep from laughing himself—especially looking at Guren's disgruntled face. The blond has no self-preservation. Recklessly goading Guren with his jokes even in the threat of Sayuri's inflicted injuries. Sometimes, his words are scalding, leaving those on the end with annoyance or fear. Most often, he prefers to make people laugh, like the smoke from his illusion—to ease the pain from hopelessness.

The three of them should have obey Hiragi House. As their lower status to be the servants—even Shinya, the adopted son of Hiragi—instead they serve under the heir of the lowest family—a mere Ichinose House.

And they are loyal, for Guren whom is their leader and a friend.

However, Shinya wonders if Guren and his decisions deserve it.

* * *

 **To Drown in Blood**

He washes his hands. Again. And again. Taking off the white gloves. His hands are pale and callused, and nails with white tips. They should have been clean, but the residue from his killings—and he remembers each one whose lives he takes—will never wash off the blood from his memories. It's awful. He thinks if he lay his hands on the snow, it'll taint the white in red—staining its purity.

He knows nothing of innocence. He's five when he's forced to kill—those of his age that he once called as friends—all for the sake of survival. All for the sake of a girl with long ashen hair, with her graceful steps and ambition who wants nothing from him because her heart belongs to another.

And he, what's his meaning to live?

He isn't Kureto, whose vision is clear and unhindered even when he has to destroy the world to get it. Nor is he like Guren, with his secrets and his wants that he doesn't understand—and Guren doesn't want him to understand.

His life is meaningless.

But still he lives. Even though he has to kill both friends and foes.

* * *

 **Up in the Air**

Air is a necessity to breath. But when he's with Guren, he can't breathe.

It's strange. Given how much he can smell the musk and the sun when he stands beside him. How much he longs to bury his nose to the dark hair, feeling the warmth from his skin and to hold on as long as he could—if forever he couldn't have.

Sometimes when he's alone, he can hear his voice on his ears. The annoyance as he grumbles or the husky tone when he's sleepy or the timbre when he's standing on attention before his soldiers. And he can feel the heat from his voice, tingling on his skin like the warmth of the sun and Shinya has to keep his hand over his chest—to steady the thrumming heartbeat and airless lungs.

Guren is heat. But he's also freezing—froze Shinya on his feet without effort.

* * *

The ceiling is dark grey with one a lamp hangs on the center. The walls are just as dark, while the bars gleaming from the low light. The air is frigid, cold seeping the stone walls and Shinya sits on his cot, looking up at the man before him.

"Shinya," Guren says. Dark hair curls around his forehead, making a shadow on amethyst eyes. Black uniform is pristine, despite the smell of blood lingers. But it's inevitable, as their lives are the series of death and Shinya can't stop thinking of how many—friends or foes—that Guren has killed till now.

It's funny. The prison is cold. He can feel the heat from Guren and it makes Shinya feels colder. Ice furling inside his heart despite the spring season it should be outside. He grips the sheet tighter. Bites his lip until the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth.

"Guren," he says, trying to take a breath—to scent the musk and the sun and the blood.

And he thinks how pathetic it is. With or without Guren, he still can't breathe.

* * *

 **Notes**

I don't think I've ever write something in this writing style... don't know if it works or not...

Also songs I listen to:

Metal and Dust by London Grammar;

Up in the Air by 30 Seconds to Mars.


End file.
